Brighter Shone the Golden Shadows by Louisa May Alcott

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And o'er the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was taught
The 'Power of Love,' by gentle deeds
That little Violet wrought.

The Downward Road by Louisa May Alcott

    Two Yankee maids of simple mien,
    And earnest, high endeavour,
    Come sailing to the land of France,
    To escape the winter weather.
    When first they reached that vicious shore
    They scorned the native ways,
    Refused to eat the native grub,
    Or ride in native shays.
    'Oh, for the puddings of our home!
    Oh, for some simple food!
    These horrid, greasy, unknown things,
    How can you think them good?'
    Thus to Amanda did they say,
    An uncomplaining maid,
    Who ate in peace and answered not
    Until one day they said--
    How _can_ you eat this garbage vile
    Against all nature's laws?
    How _can_ you eat your nails in points,
    Until they look like claws?'
    Then patiently Amanda said,
    'My loves, just wait a while,
    The time will come you will not think
    The nails or victuals vile.'
    A month has passed, and now we see
    That prophecy fulfilled;
    The ardour of those carping maids
    Is most completely chilled.
    Matilda was the first to fall,
    Lured by the dark gossoon,
    In awful dishes one by one
    She dipped her timid spoon.
    She promised for one little week
    To let her nails grow long,
    But added in a saving clause
    She thought it very wrong.
    Thus did she take the fatal plunge,
    Did compromise with sin,
    Then all was lost; from that day forth
    French ways were sure to win.
    Lavinia followed in her train,
    And ran the self-same road,
    Ate sweet-bread first, then chopped-up brains,
    Eels, mushrooms, pickled toad.
    She cries, 'How flat the home _cuisine_
    After this luscious food!
    Puddings and brutal joints of meat,
    That once we fancied good!'
    And now in all their leisure hours
    One resource never fails,
    Morning and noon and night they sit
    And polish up their nails.
    Then if in one short fatal month
    A change like this appears,
    Oh, what will be the next result
    When they have stayed for years?

In the Garret by Louisa May Alcott

        Four little chests all in a row,
        Dim with dust, and worn by time,
        All fashioned and filled, long ago,
        By children now in their prime.
        Four little keys hung side by side,
        With faded ribbons, brave and gay
        When fastened there, with childish pride,
        Long ago, on a rainy day.
        Four little names, one on each lid,
        Carved out by a boyish hand,
        And underneath there lieth hid
        Histories of the happy band
        Once playing here, and pausing oft
        To hear the sweet refrain,
        That came and went on the roof aloft,
        In the falling summer rain.


        "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
        I look in with loving eyes,
        For folded here, with well-known care,
        A goodly gathering lies,
        The record of a peaceful life--
        Gifts to gentle child and girl,
        A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
        A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
        No toys in this first chest remain,
        For all are carried away,
        In their old age, to join again
        In another small Meg's play.
        Ah, happy mother! Well I know
        You hear, like a sweet refrain,
        Lullabies ever soft and low
        In the falling summer rain.


        "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
        And within a motley store
        Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
        Birds and beasts that speak no more,
        Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
        Only trod by youthful feet,
        Dreams of a future never found,
        Memories of a past still sweet,
        Half-writ poems, stories wild,
        April letters, warm and cold,
        Diaries of a wilful child,
        Hints of a woman early old,
        A woman in a lonely home,
        Hearing, like a sad refrain--
        "Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
        In the falling summer rain.


        My Beth! the dust is always swept
        From the lid that bears your name,
        As if by loving eyes that wept,
        By careful hands that often came.
        Death canonized for us one saint,
        Ever less human than divine,
        And still we lay, with tender plaint,
        Relics in this household shrine--
        The silver bell, so seldom rung,
        The little cap which last she wore,
        The fair, dead Catherine that hung
        By angels borne above her door.
        The songs she sang, without lament,
        In her prison-house of pain,
        Forever are they sweetly blent
        With the falling summer rain.


        Upon the last lid's polished field--
        Legend now both fair and true
        A gallant knight bears on his shield,
        "Amy" in letters gold and blue.
        Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
        Slippers that have danced their last,
        Faded flowers laid by with care,
        Fans whose airy toils are past,
        Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
        Trifles that have borne their part
        In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
        The record of a maiden heart
        Now learning fairer, truer spells,
        Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
        The silver sound of bridal bells
        In the falling summer rain.


        Four little chests all in a row,
        Dim with dust, and worn by time,
        Four women, taught by weal and woe
        To love and labor in their prime.
        Four sisters, parted for an hour,
        None lost, one only gone before,
        Made by love's immortal power,
        Nearest and dearest evermore.
        Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
        Lie open to the Father's sight,
        May they be rich in golden hours,
        Deeds that show fairer for the light,
        Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
        Like a spirit-stirring strain,
        Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
        In the long sunshine after rain.

Fairy Song by Louisa May Alcott

    The moonlight fades from flower and tree,
    And the stars dim one by one;
    The tale is told, the song is sung,
    And the Fairy feast is done.
    The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
    And sings to them, soft and low.
    The early birds erelong will wake:
    'T is time for the Elves to go.

    O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
    Unseen by mortal eye,
    And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
    Through the quiet moonlit sky;--
    For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,
    And the flowers alone may know,
    The feasts we hold, the tales we tell:
    So 't is time for the Elves to go.

    From bird, and blossom, and bee,
    We learn the lessons they teach;
    And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
    A loving friend in each.
    And though unseen on earth we dwell,
    Sweet voices whisper low,
    And gentle hearts most joyously greet
    The Elves where'er they go.

    When next we meet in the Fairy dell,
    May the silver moon's soft light
    Shine then on faces gay as now,
    And Elfin hearts as light.
    Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
    With sunlight soon will glow.
    The morning star shall light us home:
    Farewell! for the Elves must go.